


Ironwood Hall

by wheel_pen



Series: Ironwood Hall [1]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Haunted Houses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 05:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7494951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik and Emma are Alpha siblings living in an ancient house in the Victorian era… a house that has strong opinions about who its family should marry, that has dispatched unsuitable spouses in the past. The latest candidate? A creative young Omega named Charles Xavier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ironwood Hall

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

 

The House did not like this Mate. She was too weak to propagate a strong line. So, she would be disposed of.

The Master would be sad for a while. The Sister knew it was inevitable. But then the way would be clear for the Master to try again.

The House had to think of its Family first. That was its nature.

**

Erik woke up in bed alone, his new spouse nowhere in sight, and the door to his bedroom open. That could be a bad sign, and he got up hurriedly. The lamps lit automatically in the grey morning light and the fire sprang to life in the grate, obnoxiously cheerful. This did not always happen for Erik, the house being mercurial in its moods; in fact he found it a bit suspicious, as if it was attempting to pacify him, and he pulled on his robe and slippers and went out to the drafty hall.

“Mary?” he called. There was no answer; he felt like the house was holding its breath, so silent and still was it. A sense of foreboding led him down the stairs.

He turned at the landing and saw her—sprawled at the foot of the stairs, her white nightdress in sharp contrast to the dark wood of the floor. Erik approached slowly; there was no need to rush. He knew she was dead.

Fury stole through his heart, but it was cold now, after all these years, all these tragedies. He and Mary had only been married for a month, and had barely known each other before that. She was of suitable birth but a younger daughter, the sort who in ages past would have been sacrificed to the Church. Now she was sacrificed to the Lehnsherr family, to Ironwood Hall and the bitter legacy Erik’s father had left him and his sister.

At this rate, they would have no one to leave it to themselves, and perhaps that was preferable.

“Erik?” He was crouching near Mary’s body now, and straightened up as Emma moved towards him, ghostly pale in her white dressing gown.

“Take care of this,” he told his sister, and walked across the foyer straight out the front door into the chilly morning. The house controlled the grounds as well, so he would be perfectly safe.

**

The proper mourning period was observed, and Mary’s family paid off. The house didn’t seem to worry about the financial cost its actions incurred; it was always turning up gold coins in the basement anyway. It didn’t worry about any other cost—emotional, say—so why would mere money bother it?

Emma threw herself back into researching the marriage market with her customary diligence, scanning the society pages of the newspaper over breakfast while Erik read the foreign affairs section and tried to ignore her.

“Robert Benson,” she mused, delicately pecking at her egg. “No—eldest son. Elizabeth Lane—well, she’s a Beta.” Erik crunched his toast and said nothing. “I think an Omega would be better,” she went on, scribbling down another name.

“Someone who _survives_ would be better,” Erik muttered darkly. Mrs. Malloy came in from the kitchen to refresh their tea—the house, at least, saved them on staff wages by being largely self-maintaining. “Thank you. What’s for lunch?”

“Beef brisket and new potatoes, sir,” Mrs. Malloy replied. “If that suits.”

“Sounds good.”

“Could we get something green, at least?” Emma requested. “Some peas or something. Maybe some fruit.”

“Of course, Miss,” Mrs. Malloy agreed, and hurried back to the kitchen before Emma could suggest something else radical, like a salad.

Emma sighed. “We just need some _energy_ around here,” she judged. “It’s so drab. Could you open the curtains more, please?” This was directed to the house, which obliged by drawing back the heavy curtains to reveal a grey, gloomy day outside.

“What an improvement,” Erik deadpanned unhelpfully.

“What about updating the walls?” Emma proposed. “There are some lovely new patterns at Coolidge’s—“ The door to the dining room banged shut, usually interpreted as a sign of disagreement. The house was not interested in changing—ever, or until suitable spouses had been found, they weren’t sure. “You haven’t even seen them,” Emma huffed.

She was quiet for a long moment, studying the newspaper, but started in again before Erik could escape. “Perhaps we could have a party—“

“No.”

“The house could indicate who it liked best,” Emma pressed.

“The house is no better at choosing someone based on one party than you or I are,” Erik pointed out shortly. “As we have seen.” They had thought of that method before.

“Perhaps a series of parties—“

“No.” Erik hated parties. People would come only to gawk at them and the house, anyway. If they dared to come at all—the house did not like strangers tramping through it, so the party guests didn’t always survive.

Emma went back to her newspaper, disgruntled with the lack of support she was receiving. “Diana Crane,” she began again.

“You’re not going to find anyone who’ll say yes,” Erik predicted irritably. He did not _enjoy_ being known as a man who was careless with his spouses. “You’ll have to look abroad. Find yourself a deposed prince or something.”

Emma considered this, searching for matches for herself as well as Erik. The house seemed to place more importance on _his_ marriage, as he was the elder; but it certainly had had strong opinions on all of Emma’s (late) spouses as well.

“Charles Xavier,” she said suddenly, shaking the paper with some excitement.

“Who?”

“He’s just returned from touring the Continent,” she read. “A male Omega. The family doesn’t have much money anymore,” she recalled from her close study of society’s economics. “Big houses, not enough income for upkeep. A definite possibility. Here.”

Unwillingly Erik glanced at the small sketch in the paper, showing a boyish Omega with good cheekbones and a charming smile. Anyone could be drawn in a flattering way, however. And it was better not to get attached.

“Whatever.”

Emma was not put off by his lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll make some inquiries,” she planned.

**

Emma thought this Charles Xavier would be a good match for Erik, which meant Erik had to meet with his stepfather. He took an immediate dislike to the older man, but frankly that wasn’t unusual, as Erik didn’t like many people at all.

“So, you think Charles might be worth something to you, then?” Mr. Marko asked greedily.

It was so gauche, speaking of money like that. “I’m sure we could come to an arrangement,” Erik demurred, sipping the brandy he’d been offered. “What’s he like?”

“Does it matter?” the man shot back. “I’ve heard your spouses don’t last long anyway.”

It took more than an upstart like Kurt Marko to anger Erik these days. Still, he set his glass aside. “I see I’m wasting your time,” he said, starting to rise. “My apologies—“

“Sit down, sit down,” Kurt insisted chummily. “No need to get your feathers ruffled.” Erik sat back down, watching the other man expectantly. “We’re men of the world, we can speak frankly to each other,” Kurt claimed smugly.

“Alright,” Erik agreed. He would have something interesting to tell Emma later, at least.

“Charles is…” Kurt paused for such a long moment, his face going through tortured grimaces, that Erik wondered if he was having a fit. “…imaginative,” he finally spat out.

Erik blinked at him, having anticipated something worse. “Oh.” Kurt Marko clearly thought this _was_ worse.

“Flighty. A dreamer. He writes _stories_ ,” he scoffed. “About nonsense. Talks to his old toys. And the trees! Fills his mind with drivel.”

Erik felt he’d rather have a conversation with Charles than with his stepfather. “I think I can deal with that,” he said flatly. Erik talked to his house, after all.

“You’ve just got to have a firm hand with him,” Kurt declared, raising his hand as though giving someone a smack. Erik’s eyebrows went up. “That’ll settle down his chattering for a while. Long enough for your purposes, eh?” he chuckled crudely.

Part of Erik wanted to immediately rescue Charles from this odious man. The other part reminded him that marrying Charles was hardly a _rescue_ —it was more likely to be a death sentence. Would Charles risk death, to escape from his stepfather’s control? You couldn’t exactly ask someone that question.

“Perhaps I’d better meet him,” Erik suggested. Maybe he would be quite annoying in person.

Kurt looked slightly alarmed. “Don’t be too worried about him,” he backpedaled. “It’s just Omega nonsense. He’s not wrong in the head or anything. Keeps himself occupied if you give him books.” Clearly Kurt had no other use for books. “He’s a pleasant-looking lad, at least, if he keeps his mouth shut.”

“I haven’t been put off,” Erik assured him mildly, his tone inversely proportional to the disgust he was feeling. “I’ll meet him first, and then we can talk again.” About money, his look implied, and Kurt’s eyes lit up at that.

“Alright, let’s go find him,” he agreed, popping up with determination. “He does tend to get lost a bit. Doesn’t pay attention to where he’s going.”

He led Erik through the house, interrogating every servant they came across, until they were directed to the garden. “D—n fool plants,” Kurt muttered, shoving a branch aside. Erik distracted himself from anger by memorizing all his lines, worried Emma would not believe that this character existed. “Charles! Where are you!”

Head and shoulders appeared over a hedge, standing on something. “Right here, Stepfather!”

D—n, Erik thought with disappointment. He had crystal blue eyes, cherry red lips, and an incandescent smile, even for his stepfather. Erik did not want to see that lying at the foot of the stairs.

“Get over here,” Kurt ordered, while Erik was trying not to stare. “This is Mr. Lehnsherr, he might want to marry you if you don’t do anything too foolish.”

Charles did not know how to take that introduction, and neither did Erik. “Hello,” Erik greeted when Charles came around the hedge. He took his hand lightly. “I’m Erik.” Up close, he had freckles. This was only getting worse.

“Hello, I’m Charles.” His smile was intrigued but also nervous—Erik could imagine his stepfather was the evil that he knew, but a stranger might be worse.

Erik gave Kurt a significant glance, until he got the point. “I’ll leave you to get acquainted,” he announced, then shot Charles a warning look.

There was awkward silence as he left. “My house, Ironwood Hall, is out in the country,” Erik finally stated. “We would have to stay there most of the time. We don’t travel much. Is that alright?”

Charles smiled. “I love the country!” he assured Erik. “Do you have a big garden?”

They started walking down the path. “We have land,” Erik dodged. “It’s a bit overgrown. The house is quite old,” he added, wondering if he was trying to scare Charles off. “Parts are closed off. There’s legal reasons why we can’t sell it.”

Charles nodded. “An ancient mansion on the wild moor!” he described dramatically. “How romantic!”

“I never thought of it that way,” Erik replied dryly. He noticed Charles was carrying a notebook. “Are you writing a story?” His open face turned suddenly wary. “Your stepfather said…”

“I don’t let anyone read them,” Charles told him quickly. “They’re very private.”

“Okay,” Erik agreed. He didn’t care that much. “I have a large library. I heard you like to read.” _This_ was what he was supposed to do, sell the idea to the prospective spouse.

Charles relaxed again. “Yes, I love to read! What sort of books do you like?”

“History, mainly,” Erik described. “Science. Politics. Some art.”

Charles admirably tried to show interest in that. “I like adventure,” he said, which did not surprise Erik. “And romance and mystery! And ghost stories, I _love_ ghost stories.”

“Well, maybe you’ll like the house, then,” Erik replied, trying not to choke on the irony. “It’s quite spooky.” He could not, of course, tell someone about the house and its attitude, and expect to be taken seriously.

Charles was not dissuaded. “I miss our old house,” he sighed. “In the country. I grew up there. We had to sell it when my father died,” he explained. “It was… It had such a nice personality!” he blurted, checking to see if this bothered Erik. “I felt like it was whispering to me all the time.”

Erik suddenly wondered if he was _meant_ to be bothered, if this was how Charles fended off other suitors. “What did it say?” he asked curiously.

“Oh, nothing specific,” Charles shrugged. “I’m sure they were nice things, though. Like it was embracing me.”

“My house is more likely to strangle you,” Erik warned, before he could stop himself, but Charles laughed.

“Well that’s personality at least!” he declared. “This house is quite new,” he added in a hushed tone, indicating the building over his shoulder, “and doesn’t really know what’s going on yet.”

Erik didn’t know what was going on, either. He enjoyed talking to Charles—that didn’t happen much—he certainly hadn’t spoken to anyone like him before. Though, one of Emma’s spouses used to write rather sappy poetry about ‘the stars being God’s daisy chain,’ and that hadn’t saved her. Erik suddenly wanted Charles to be saved.

“Look here, do you actually _want_ to get married?” he asked Charles, stopping him on the garden path and looking him in the eye. “Or would you rather stay here with your parents? It’s okay to say, you’re quite young.”

Charles’s lips twisted into a half-smile, unnervingly self-aware. He was young, but knew he wasn’t _quite_ young any longer. In a year or two, people would begin to talk if he wasn’t at least being courted.

“Marriage can be dangerous, you know,” Erik continued, before he could answer. “Childbirth, I mean.” That was what had happened to Emma’s mother—the house had liked her well enough, obviously, but its powers had limits. Erik’s mother had escaped with an amicable divorce after producing him, and now resided peacefully in the South of France, where houses inertly minded their own business. “It’s understandable if you don’t want to risk it. You’ve got your stories, that must be very fulfilling.”

Charles smiled, a bit indulgently. “Do you do anything artistic, Erik?” he asked.

“A little sculpture. Metalwork, just for fun,” Erik admitted uncomfortably. He had enjoyed it once, but had not felt very inspired the last few years. “Emma—my sister—she likes watercolors.” They were the idle rich, after all.

“I’d want to write quite a lot,” Charles went on boldly. “Hours a day, sometimes. I write by hand, then type them on the typewriter. But no one can read it!” He was clearly testing Erik’s reaction to this.

“That’s fine,” he shrugged. What else could he say but the truth? “You’ll need to keep yourself occupied, we’re not very social.”

“And you don’t mind what sort of books I read?” Charles probed. “Even if they’re _quite_ foolish?”

Erik should say yes. If he wanted Charles to turn him down, and live—with his awful stepfather, yes, but _alive_ —he should say yes. “I don’t really care,” Erik responded, selfishly.

“Well, I don’t see why we wouldn’t get along, then, Erik,” Charles concluded, his grin dazzling. There had to be some uncertainty beneath it, but it was well-masked.

Erik started to smile back, a warm feeling rising within him. He crushed it ruthlessly. He could not afford to get attached, to daydream about his loneliness ending. The odds were not in Charles’s favor.

“Fine, I’ll speak to your stepfather,” he announced, turning away abruptly. “It will happen quickly, so start packing.” He began to march back to the house, leaving Charles standing alone. “Only a small wedding,” he called back over his shoulder. He thought he heard Charles say something in return, but didn’t look back to check.

**

Emma and Erik turned up to collect Charles only a few days later. “He’s still packing,” Kurt told them, rolling his eyes. Erik huffed impatiently and the other man immediately worried this was a deal-breaker. “Take him without any luggage,” he suggested hastily. “The clothes are ready, it’s just his stupid books and stories he’s obsessing over.”

Emma, prepared for this philistine’s attitude, gave him a cold and brittle smile. “I’ll just go help him,” she offered.

That would leave Erik alone with Kurt, which was unacceptable. “I’ll go, too,” he added quickly, following Emma up the stairs. “Maybe I can bring something down.” Unfortunately, Kurt chose to accompany them.

Charles’s room, which was fairly small, was buzzing with activity as servants packed his books into one trunk and rearranged clothes in another. He was kneeling over a third trunk and looked up in a panic when the visitors entered.

“I’m almost done!” he swore, frantically wrapping some notebooks in oilcloth.

“You should be done already,” Kurt berated. “They’ve come to get you, forget this junk.”

Charles took a breath, straining to calm himself as he tucked the bundle of notebooks into the trunk. “I know, I’m sorry, I’ll just be a few more minutes—“

“You’re not going on an ocean voyage,” Kurt scoffed as he protectively wrapped up more notebooks.

“If it rains, they might be ruined—“

“Probably be an improvement,” Kurt said rudely, kicking over a stack of folders. The pages spilled across the floor, and Erik thought Charles was going to cry, or perhaps rise up and murder his stepfather.

“Emma was saying she would love to see your gardens,” Erik told Kurt quickly.

Emma’s eyes widened but she gamely took one for the family, slipping her arm through Kurt’s and giving him a charming smile. “Yes, I’ve heard they’re quite beautiful,” she claimed, guiding him towards the door. “Would you indulge me?”

Kurt was a sucker for indulging charming women and smiled ingratiatingly at her. “Of course, my dear,” he replied smoothly. Erik was _really_ going to owe his sister for this. “Since we have to wait anyway,” he added, throwing a dark look at Charles. The Omega had hardly moved, surrounded by the scattered papers. Kurt and Emma left, her laughter floating down the hall.

Erik waited until he couldn’t hear it anymore, then crouched down beside Charles. “What can I help you with?” he asked in a low voice. He put his hand on Charles’s arm, finding it hard with tension.

“I just—I have to—“ Charles stuttered, trying to grab up the stray papers.

“Hey.” Erik held his arm until Charles looked up at him, his blue eyes damp. “Bring anything you want. Bring _everything_ you want. But I think the sooner we get away from here, the better. Hmm?” Charles nodded and went back to collecting his papers, but with more focus.

Erik stood and turned his attention to the other trunks. “Let’s try lifting that,” he said to the manservant who was filling a trunk with books. “I’m not Hercules, you know. Can you put clothes in the rest of it? What else is left to pack?”

Erik helped navigate down the stairs with the first trunk, the servants grateful for the help as Kurt seemed to have too few of them. Stewart was waiting in the lane with the wagon and eyed the load skeptically.

“At least two more like this,” Erik told him, after they slid the trunk into place.

“Should’ve brought more horses,” Stewart muttered. Erik ignored this and went back up for the second trunk. It was lighter, being more clothes than books. The amount of luggage was not unusual, but normally it was clothes and shoes and capes and evening bags, the sort of accessories considered appropriately Omega-like. Books were heavier, but at least Charles was more likely to use them at Ironwood Hall.

Charles was alone in his room when Erik returned. The closet and drawers and shelves had been emptied, and he was tucking a last layer of oilcloth around the top of the notebooks. “It’s just, if they get wet, they’ll be ruined,” he repeated to Erik hastily.

“It’s okay,” Erik assured him. “Do what you need to do. Is there anything I can help with?”

Charles shut and latched the trunk firmly, then popped up. “Thank you, you’ve been so kind,” he told Erik, giving him a smile Erik was certain he didn’t deserve. “Moving is stressful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Erik had only done it once as an adult, traveling back to Ironwood Hall to take over after his father’s death. Which was certainly stressful.

“Well, there’s just this trunk,” Charles listed, bounding across the room to the bed. “And this bag. And my coat and hat.”

“Alright, I’ll get the trunk taken down,” Erik planned. “You bring the rest, and we’ll go to the church.”

“I ought to say good-bye first,” Charles countered hesitantly, as Erik saw the trunk down the stairs. Charles watched it anxiously, worried for its precious cargo.

“Aren’t your parents coming to the church?” Erik asked in confusion.

Charles put his coat on. “My mother left yesterday for the Alps,” he replied. “And my stepfather is busy. I wanted to say good-bye to some of the servants, they’ve been very good to me.” He said this all very straightforwardly, so Erik decided to take it in stride. If Charles’s parents weren’t coming to his wedding, well, honestly, that would make it faster and more pleasant.

“Okay then,” he agreed. “Can I take your bag?”

“It has my toys,” Charles replied, instead of handing it over. “I’ve had them since I was small—“

“Charles, I have a very large house,” Erik stated. He didn’t think that was really the problem, more that Charles had been begrudged almost every possession. “You can bring whatever you want, and it will be safe.” The house was, at least, not given to pettiness like tearing books or breaking dolls. Erik sometimes thought it preferred the _things_ to the _people_.

Charles smiled, just a little bit. He barely knew Erik; but he saw something in him that made him want to take a leap of faith. Erik tried not to think about what he might be leaping into. All the Omegas started out this way, he reminded himself viciously. Fresh-faced and dewy-eyed.

Oblivious to Erik’s dark thoughts, Charles handed over the bag. “Thank you, Erik!”

“You’re welcome,” Erik replied gruffly. “Let’s go.”

Charles stopped at the doorway and turned around. “Goodbye, room!” he told it cheerfully, and patted the doorframe. Erik blinked but said nothing, and they parted on the first floor as Erik went outside and Charles headed to the kitchen.

He deposited Charles’s bag in the wagon and then went to the garden to rescue Emma. Kurt insisted upon chatting amiably with his almost son-in-law—shudder—despite being totally uninterested in the wedding. What he was interested in was the Lehnsherr money, having spent what he could of the Xaviers’, and he kept hinting about the size of the Ironwood Hall estate and what sort of assets it possessed. Erik had technically been a son-in-law several times by now; but when your spouse tended to die after a month or two, it was hard to form a bond with their family. Even when they were nicer than this lot.

“Well, we have to go, the appointment’s at two forty-five,” Erik claimed, checking his watch. “Can’t be late, the vicar is already squeezing us in.” Expertly Emma moved towards the exit with him, their body language implacable.

Charles was at the wagon, already making friends with Stewart despite the groundskeeper’s crusty attitude. He sobered when he saw Kurt, steeling himself to take his leave of his stepfather. Erik found himself drifting supportively to the Omega’s side, or maybe he was just trying to get away from Kurt.

“Well,” Kurt began. “Mind you behave yourself. I’m sure Mr. Lehnsherr won’t indulge your nonsense like your mother and I have.”

“Yes, sir,” Charles answered, with a good approximation of obedience.

Kurt seemed to expect more, but Charles wasn’t the sort to risk his chance at freedom for a final retort. “Well. You’d better get going, then,” Kurt finally said.

“We’re in the carriage,” Erik directed, and Emma guided Charles away.

“Looking forward to visiting you folks in the country,” Kurt announced leadingly.

It would be a cold day in H—l before Kurt Marko entered his territory. “We’ll let you know,” Erik claimed breezily, and left.

The ride to the church was short, the marriage ceremony only slightly longer. Then they were off on the comparatively long drive back to Ironwood Hall, Charles still looking a bit shell-shocked by the sudden changes in his life.

He kept peering back nervously at the wagon behind them, so Erik slowed the carriage to stay within sight. “Emma said something about a hamper of food?” Erik remarked, trying to engage Charles.

“Yes, Mrs. Stubbins, the housekeeper, gave it to me,” Charles replied. “I had to hide it in the wagon so my stepfather wouldn’t see it, he wouldn’t have approved. Do you think your housekeeper will be offended?”

“No, Mrs. Malloy won’t mind,” Emma assured him. “But you may find her a bit set in her ways, I’m afraid.”

“Do you have a vegetable garden?” Charles asked, a bit randomly. “I do love fresh produce!”

Emma was sitting behind them, but Erik could feel her _look_. “No garden as yet,” he was forced to admit. “The grounds are rather underdeveloped. Not much staff.”

“Oh yes, the ancient manor on the wild moor,” Charles recalled cheerfully. “I’m sure I will like it very much.”

“Perhaps, in the future, we could… plant something,” Erik offered tentatively. This was not a mere empty promise; it had suddenly occurred to him to wonder why they _didn’t_ have vegetable or flower gardens, or fruit trees or whatever. They didn’t actually _need_ staff to tend them, the house controlled the grounds. It simply didn’t _want_ gardens. Or maybe it was Erik, who would have found a beautiful garden pointless and empty—the house had too much death associated with it.

“I would like a garden,” Emma murmured from behind him.

Erik did _not_ want a garden, he decided fiercely. Because when Charles was dead the garden would remind Erik of him, and Erik would order it destroyed anyway.

“What do you—“ Erik spoke before he’d thought it all through, wanting to get away from the black mood that threatened to overtake him. “You don’t let anyone read your stories,” he reiterated to Charles, who had been checking on the wagon again. “But can you tell us about one?”

“Oh, well, if you’d be interested,” Charles hesitated. “They’re really very silly!” His tone sobered suddenly. “I hope you won’t find them unsuitable.”

Erik did a double take to ascertain that Charles was genuinely worried. “I’m sure you may write whatever you want, Charles,” he assured him. “You don’t have to tell me anything at all about them.”

“But we’d be most curious to know,” Emma jumped in supportively.

“Oh, well, I suppose I could tell you what I’ve been working on most recently,” Charles decided. Erik sensed he was not fishing for attention, for the information to be drawn from him; on the contrary, he probably had considerable experience with the subject matter being derided once people learned about it.

“Please tell us, if you would,” Erik encouraged.

Charles liked dragons, apparently. And color-coding, and elaborate fantasy worlds he had to draw maps for in order to keep them straight. Erik listened with amazement; he didn’t think his own mind was big enough to comprehend the _summary_ , let alone come up with such intricate plots and characters. But it seemed to come easily to Charles, his blue dragons of justice and red dragons of commerce, his wandering adventurers and the mystical crown of jewels they sought.

“Oh, hmm, that’s a good idea,” Charles said, interrupting himself, and pulled a notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket, at which point Erik realized he had recited all the particulars of his story _without_ consulting any notes. “I’ve just thought of a rather important plot development, please excuse me a moment while I write it down!” Charles apologized.

Erik watched Charles scribble, so animated and focused. He didn’t dare speak until the pencil slowed, for fear of derailing whatever black magic was occurring. “How do you—how do you even _think_ of all those things?” he finally had to ask.

Charles laughed breezily. “Oh, I don’t know,” he claimed. “I get ideas from dreams sometimes. Mostly I just think a lot—daydream, when things are dull. Like in school or when traveling or during dinner.”

Erik and Emma had had artistic spouses before—the aforementioned poet, a musician who was quite good. Well-bred Omegas seemed to all embroider or draw a bit. But none had approached their art with as much enthusiasm and imagination as Charles, in Erik’s opinion. The poet had been more of a dabbler (thought difficult to dissuade once she got going), and the musician had been skilled technically but never focused on creating something new.

Well, it wasn’t _special_ , Erik decided gloomily. People were just different, everyone had their own hobbies and passions. He’d always found his spouses reasonably pleasant, and Charles was no exception to that.

Sensing that Erik had turned broody, Emma chatted with Charles about his recent travels on the Continent for a while. Then they took a break to stretch their legs and sample the generous snacks Charles’s former housekeeper had provided, and Charles double-checked all his precious boxes in the wagon.

“He seems nice,” Emma remarked quietly to Erik.

“Sure.” His response suggested this wasn’t unusual.

“I think the house likes creativity,” she continued, more directly.

Erik snorted. “I’ve seen no evidence of that.”

They both paused at a strange sound, which turned out to be Stewart chuckling at something Charles had said. Erik couldn’t remember the last time the man had _chuckled_.

“He’s so sweet,” Emma judged, refusing to take Erik’s disdain seriously. “You offered to plant him a garden!”

Erik was in no mood for her teasing smile, however. “It’ll be months before the planting season starts.” He did not need to add that no spouse had ever lasted that long. “Charles! Are you ready to move on?” he summoned. “We should get there before dark.”

They kept driving, Erik taking the long way around the village outside the Hall. They passed a few cottages anyway and Charles waved excitedly; the village would know a new sacrificial lamb had arrived before nightfall. The Lehnsherrs didn’t get into the village much anyway, preferring to have supplies delivered when possible.

They drove over a stone bridge above a creek, and Erik opened his mouth to speak, but Charles blurted, “Oh, this is beautiful! Oh, excuse me.”

“I was just about to say that we’re on our land now,” Erik told him. “The creek marks the boundary.” He didn’t find anything particularly notable about this view, the house was still hidden around a bend.

“Yes, it feels different,” Charles claimed, and Erik risked a glance back at Emma, who raised her eyebrows. “It’s very…” He trailed off, trying to think of a description. “I feel like things are waiting,” he finally said. “Maybe it’s just because there aren’t any gardens or outbuildings. Like you said, undeveloped potential,” he added hurriedly, trying to sound more normal.

That wasn’t really what Erik had said; but it seemed plausible enough. Charles had come from one of those grand showplace estates, Erik understood, where they had a statue every ten feet. So he was probably just reacting to the utter lack of ornamentation on the grounds, and the slightly unkempt look of its scraggly hedges and overgrown trees, whose branches arched over the narrow lane and scraped the top of the carriage. There were much less tactful ways he could have described it.

“Here’s the house,” Erik warned, as they rounded the corner.

“Oh,” Charles breathed, in a positive way. He seemed stuck on what else to say, however. In the golden light of sunset the house looked marginally less sinister, Erik allowed, the slate lighter and the peaks softer.

“It’s so—It looks so magical!” Charles exclaimed. “Like there ought to be a dragon wrapped around it, protecting everyone inside.” Erik turned slowly to stare at Charles, who noticed and flushed slightly with embarrassment. Emma jabbed Erik in the back.

“Um, that is quite a compliment, considering how much you like dragons,” Erik finally replied, hastily. “I think you’re being too kind, though. It’s not much to boast of.”

“It seems to have a lot of personality,” Charles ventured.

“Too much.”

They approached the main gate and Erik stopped the carriage to get down and open it; when it was just them, with no witnesses, the gate opened and closed on its own. They pulled into the yard before the front doors, and Erik helped Charles down. And Emma, after she cleared her throat in reminder.

“Well. Let’s go inside,” was all Erik could think to say.

“Oughtn’t we help Stewart with the luggage?” Charles suggested, looking back at his belongings.

“No, he’s fine,” Erik claimed, ushering Charles into the foyer. The house was capable of transferring objects from one place to another, through its own unseen ways.

Being inside successfully distracted Charles. “Oh, how lovely!” he complimented, turning around to stare at the paintings and the banners, the suits of armor and furniture. “Hello, house! Aren’t you wonderful! What elegant woodwork.”

Erik said nothing, trying to get an idea of the house’s mood—not easy in the best of times. He thought he could feel it around him, a sort of low humming he didn’t feel in other places, but that could easily have been his imagination.

Charles was already hopping up the stairs for a closer look at the paintings on the landing, stroking the intricate iron scrollwork admiringly. “How old is the house?” he asked.

“A lady never tells,” Emma quipped.

“Old enough to know better,” Erik countered. Charles laughed at both responses. “Come this way, I’ll show you the library.”

Charles joined him, but cast his gaze back towards the door. “The trunks are rather heavy, and it looked like it might rain—“

“Charles.” This was one of those times when Erik had to be mysterious and mercurial. “I promise your things will be delivered safely to your room,” he stated calmly. “You needn’t concern yourself with it.”

“We’ll show you around a bit,” Emma added, more warmly, “and when you get to your room everything will be put away for you.” She started to take his coat.

“Oh. Alright,” Charles agreed dubiously. “It doesn’t have to be put away, though,” he told her. “I like putting things away myself, there are ways I like to organize them.”

A movement caught Erik’s eye and he saw a banner fluttering above their heads, though there was no breeze. He interpreted that as the house acknowledging Charles’s request—a bit overt, however. Charles didn’t seem to notice it, at least.

“I’m sure that’s fine,” Erik replied quickly. “Let’s go this way.”

Charles loved the library, with its two stories of shelves packed with books collected over several lifetimes. There always seemed to be room for more, however; Emma had gotten a box while they were in town. Then they showed Charles the parlor and the dining room, and introduced him to Mrs. Malloy in the kitchen, who was promptly charmed. There were a couple other rooms with furniture in them, but Erik suddenly realized how little of the house they needed or used. It seemed pathetic, considering the total square footage.

“We keep most of the house closed up,” Erik explained, leading Charles up the wide main stairs. “Some of those parts are structurally unsound. You shouldn’t go wandering.”

“Oh.” Charles seemed disappointed, but rallied when Erik glanced at him. “It’s just I’ve always liked wandering around houses and grounds,” he explained brightly. “Discovering hidden nooks, little corners, quirky features…”

This house’s quirky features were as likely to trip, strangle, or stab Charles as anything else. “Don’t do that here,” Erik warned, a bit severely. He didn’t know how long Charles would last, but he didn’t have to go _looking_ for trouble. “And don’t wander around the grounds alone, stick close to the house.” Charles nodded dutifully, perhaps wondering if he had just exchanged one sort of prison for another. “It’s for your safety,” Erik emphasized.

“Yes, Erik,” Charles agreed. It sounded like the same tone he had used with his stepfather, and Erik did not like that.

“This is your room,” Erik went on briskly, opening one of the doors. Charles’s trunks and bags sat neatly before a crackling fire. To his dismay, Erik saw that the previous yellow upholstery and linens had been replaced with _purple_ —was that a bad sign already? “We can have the curtains changed—“

“Purple is my favorite color!” Charles exclaimed with delight. He was practically twirling around the room, stroking the bedclothes and squeezing the pillows. “It’s so romantic and mysterious, don’t you think?”

Erik was looking around for Emma, to make sure she saw this, but she had apparently gone to see about supper. “Er, of course,” he answered Charles distractedly. Sometimes the house did little ‘nice’ things at the start—tuning the piano for the musician, for example—but that had never assured longevity.

“Is this the bathroom?” Charles let himself in, and Erik could hear his pleased noises. “And the closet? So much more room than I had before! Thank you, Erik!” Boldly, Charles gave Erik a hug, then pulled back demurely.

Erik liked the little blush that stained his cheeks. “Uh, Emma’s at the end there, and I’m over here,” he added hurriedly. “We don’t really use the other rooms, so—“

“Oh, we aren’t—we aren’t sharing a room?” Charles asked with confusion.

Erik was used to this response, at least. “You can get settled in first,” he told him, casting it as a favor. Their ‘romance’ had been rather brief, after all; Erik had seen more of Charles’s stepfather than Charles himself. That was the lot of a young Omega, but most were expected to do their spousal duty anyway.

“Oh. Well, that’s very kind of you, Erik,” Charles replied, his smile so infectious that Erik felt his lips starting to respond of their own accord, before he stopped them. There was nothing _kind_ about it; Erik was merely waiting to see if Charles survived past a week or two, before letting himself get more deeply entangled.

“Dinner’s at seven,” Erik announced abruptly, and walked away from that tempting smile, leaving Charles on his own. He might be glad of some alone time after all the changes in his life today.

**

The new Mate entered, and the House began to assess him. He appreciated the House’s beauty—not all did—but the House was not susceptible to flattery. What mattered was that the Family was strong; if the Family did not survive, neither would the House.

The House could not tell immediately whether a Mate was suitable; tests must be given, and judgment rendered. The new Mate possessed creativity and imagination in abundance; this could be good or bad. He was always scribbling away in this room or that, or out in the garden, writing stories about dragons and fairies and mermaids and so forth. The plots were byzantine and the House suspected some of the vocabulary was made up. And, the Mate was forever flicking ink around and leaving smudges on the furniture and linens.

Still, the unicorn adventure was strangely compelling, and the House wished the Mate would hurry up and write the next chapter, as he’d left off at a cliffhanger, and gone on to something else.

**

“Emma, have you seen—Oh my G-d, don’t!” Charles exclaimed rather dramatically, and a sudden downdraft from the chimney extinguished the lit match in Emma’s hand, before she could apply it to the newspaper crumpled in the grate. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just that I wrote an idea on a newspaper, and I thought I was done with it so I threw it away, but now I need it back,” Charles explained apologetically, as he sorted through the kindling. “Aha, here it is!”

Erik and Emma were still trying to decide if the house had actually intervened right then or not. Old places _were_ drafty, after all. “Why-why were you writing on newspaper?” Erik asked, since it seemed like someone should say something. “What happened to your notebook?”

“Oh, that’s full, and the extras I brought are, too,” Charles confessed. “I’ve just been getting so much writing done, it’s wonderful!”

“Mrs. Malloy has a roll of butcher paper in the kitchen,” Emma pointed out calmly. “Use that next time.”

“Oh, that would be lovely, like an ancient scroll!” Charles declared. Emma smiled thinly, wishing he would go away so she could talk to her brother.

“Put notebooks and writing paper on the grocery list,” Erik advised, ostensibly speaking to Emma but really to the house.

“Of course. I didn’t realize we were using those so quickly,” she replied.

Charles grinned. “Cheers! That’d be so nice. Maybe some pens, too? Well, I’ll just go work on this,” he added of the rescued newspapers, and trotted off.

“The musician didn’t make it,” Erik pointed out gruffly, before Emma could speak.

She acknowledged that. “I suppose the house can read his stories.” She looked back at the fireplace, replaying the draft from the chimney in her mind. “Surely it must—“

“It’s only been a week,” Erik interrupted, going back to his book dismissively. “Just make sure he has whatever writing supplies he needs.”

**

In the kitchen, new items appeared on Mrs. Malloy’s list for the week—with a star by them, indicating she should go to town for them herself right away, and not wait for the next regular delivery. The Mate required fresh supplies to sustain his creativity, and the House was curious to see what he would do with them. Maybe he would finally continue the unicorn adventure.

Upstairs, the Mate rushed into his room, eager to incorporate his salvaged notes into his current story. Heedless, as usual, of where he was going, he would have blown all his scraps of note paper off his desk, and perhaps lost some, if the House hadn’t held them down. A moment too late the Mate thought to look back and check, and saw that everything was in order, so he sat down on his couch and started to write.

**

Breakfast was, Erik had to admit, much more interesting with Charles, who often had bizarre dreams to relate. Apparently Charles did not so much sleep, as go off into another dimension at night and have adventures.

“And did this dream alarm you?” Erik wanted to know. It would certainly have alarmed _him_ , around the time the giant squid appeared asking for directions to Cheswick.

Charles laughed sunnily, though, and spread some more marmalade on his toast. “No, not at all. In fact it’s given me a rather good idea for a story!” he claimed. “I’ve got several others to work on today, though, so perhaps I’ll let that one marinate for a bit.” His expression became thoughtful. “Sometimes it makes me sad, to think that I’ll never get everything that’s in my head written down.”

Erik had not considered that this might be a goal. “I think there’s not enough paper nor ink in the world, to write down everything in _your_ head,” he opined, and Charles laughed again, Emma joining in pleasantly.

Mrs. Malloy came in to refresh the tea. “What’s for lunch today?” Emma asked her.

“Lamb roast with carrots and turnips, if that pleases,” she replied perfunctorily.

“Oh, Mrs. Malloy!” Charles beckoned, before she could leave. “I was just wondering, would it be possible sometime for you to put together a salad? I had the most delightful one when I was in Italy. It’s just fresh tomato slices, mozzarella cheese, and basil, with a nice oil-and-vinegar dressing. It’s like eating a plateful of summertime!”

Erik and Emma had looked up in surprise at the word ‘salad,’ and cringed as Charles went on to ‘Italy’ and listed ingredients that were neither meat nor common root vegetables. Erik started to speak, though honestly he wasn’t sure what he was going to say—some gentle way of letting Charles down, he supposed.

“Mozzarella cheese?” Mrs. Malloy repeated faintly.

“Any mild white cheese would do,” Charles allowed.

“Well, it seems simple enough,” the housekeeper decided, and Erik was struck dumb. “I’ll go to the village today and see what I can find.”

“Cheers, Mrs. Malloy!” Charles told her, as she went back to the kitchen. “I believe it was invented on Capri,” he added to Erik and Emma, who were still giving each looks that asked, ‘Did that really happen?’ “Is something wrong? Oh, have I overstepped?” he worried, drawing back.

“No, not at all!” Emma assured him. “I think that salad sounds delicious. Don’t you, Erik?”

“I like cheese,” Erik confirmed, idiotically. His mind had not yet recovered from the sight of Mrs. Malloy voluntarily trying a new food, let alone something foreign. First time for everything.

**

A thump and a crash roused Erik, along with his bedclothes tugging at him insistently; his bedroom door already stood open, and the lamps lit themselves as he jumped out of bed and grabbed his robe and slippers. He met Emma in the hall, similarly confused as to what was going on, and saw that Charles’s bedroom door was open as well.

“Charles?” he called, looking for him in the bedroom.

“I’m down here!” Charles shouted back, from downstairs, and Erik and Emma shared a look before hurrying towards his voice.

Charles was sitting on the main steps near the railing, facing the dark foyer. Erik grabbed a convenient lantern before joining him. “What are you doing out of bed?” he asked Charles in irritation. “I told you to stay in your room at night.” Best not give the house any temptation.

“I know, Erik, but there’s a stray cat outside!” Charles said randomly, and acted like this explained something. “He sounded so lonely, and it’s so cold. I thought maybe he could come inside for the night and have some food.”

Erik blinked at him, then blinked at Emma, then back to Charles. “A stray cat?” he repeated dully, still not connecting this to Charles sitting on the stairs.

“Yes, he was right below my window,” Charles reiterated. “It’s alright, isn’t it, Erik? Just for the night. He might go on to his real home in the morning.”

Erik refused to be distracted by this cat story, or the way Charles’s eyes shown so hopefully in the dim light. “What was that noise?” he asked instead.

“Oh, I slipped on—well, my slippers,” Charles confessed lightly. “I dropped the lamp but I don’t think it broke. It went out right away.” Emma picked it up from the floor, intact and _not_ the start of a blazing inferno—the house’s influence, but that was mainly self-preservation.

“Are you alright?” Erik checked, which he realized was a bit belated.

“Yes, I managed to grab the railing and catch myself,” Charles assured him, “only I seem to be a bit stuck now.”

Erik went down the stairs and around to where Charles sat, now at eye level. Several tendrils of wrought iron from the railing had wound themselves firmly around Charles’s dressing gown, presumably preventing a further fall.

“I’m just a bit snagged, I think,” Charles added, “only I can’t see very well and I didn’t want to tear anything—“

“I’ll get it,” Erik told him. “Did you hit your head? Let Emma check.” This was merely a distraction technique, to keep Charles looking where Emma said, and not at what Erik was doing, which was tapping the iron briskly to make it uncoil and release Charles. Emma preferred to stroke the house gently while thinking praise in such situations; but Erik didn’t see that it made any difference. “There, you should be free.”

Charles popped up. “Cheers, Erik! Sorry I got you both out of bed. Is it okay about the cat, though?”

“Fine, let’s go check on the cat,” Erik sighed.

Charles started to lead the way blithely into the darkness towards the kitchen, but Erik grabbed his hand to keep him close. “Let Emma go first,” he told Charles, and Emma gave him a _look_. Well, the house was very unlikely to attack _her_. He still didn’t trust it with Charles, despite the apparent save on the stairs.

Charles didn’t mind, but rather readily cuddled up to Erik. Which wasn’t what Erik had been _going_ for, but he found he liked having the Omega right there, under his arm. Charles just seemed to fit.

“I just felt so awful for the cat,” Charles went on. “I couldn’t sleep and I could hear him crying and crying. He must be lost. I hope he hasn’t gone away, thinking no one cared about him,” he added anxiously.

“I’m sure he’ll find us,” Erik commented mildly. They’d never been much for pets at the Hall—his father had had hunting dogs and horses once, but they had been sold long ago.

The large stone kitchen was cast in distorted shadows by the smoldering hearth, which began to rise as though someone was stirring it up when they entered the room. Fortunately Charles didn’t notice, he was too busy running to the back door and yanking it open.

“Kitty!” he shouted into the night, which was windy and wet. “Here, kitty, kitty! Come inside where it’s warm and have some food!”

“Don’t go too far outside,” Erik cautioned, feeling overprotective as the wild darkness yawned before him. “You don’t even have real shoes—“

“He’s all the way on the other side of the house!” Charles worried, stepping over the threshold onto the stone patio. “What if he can’t hear me? Here, kitty, kitty! Kitty, kitty!”

Erik felt this plan was increasingly foolish and took Charles’s shoulder. “Come back inside now—“ In the background, Emma was dealing with Mrs. Malloy and Stewart, who had been awakened by the commotion. So that was the entire household, then. “Charles, really—“

A small black shape suddenly darted past their legs and into the kitchen, scrambling under the table for safety. For half a second Erik thought it was some malevolent spirit, then he realized that it must be the d—n cat.

“There he is!” Charles said excitedly, tumbling back inside only slightly damp and dropping to his knees to peer under the table. Behind his back the door closed and locked on its own, with what Erik felt was a smug air. “Hello, kitty! Are you scared? Don’t be scared,” Charles cooed.

“Here’s some chicken for him,” Mrs. Malloy said, handing Charles a plate. “Poor wee mite!” Erik did a double-take at the crotchety housekeeper to see if she was sincere in her sympathy. Apparently so.

“Here you go, kitty,” Charles coaxed, setting the bowl near the fire. “Come over here and get warm! Could I have an old dishtowel, please, and a bowl of water also?”

After a moment the cat dared to leave the confines of the table and raced over to the bowl of food, gobbling away. Charles pet and rubbed him with the towel to dry him off, and made sure he drank some water, speaking in a warm, soothing tone that was beginning to make Erik slightly jealous, much to his disgust. Then, even worse, the cat finished eating and began nuzzling Charles gratefully.

“Aren’t you a pretty kitty! Yes, you’re so beautiful!” Charles told it. The cat appeared to be entirely black, which appealed to Charles’s imagination. “Are you a boy or a girl? Does anyone know how to tell?” he asked innocently, looking around. Emma immediately pinched Erik to prevent him from making a rude remark.

Stewart, who had worked with the animals when they had them, expertly handled the cat and pronounced it a girl. That all of them were just standing around watching this creature make itself at home in Charles’s lap was utterly ridiculous—yet Erik had no intention of leaving, he had to see Charles safely back to bed first.

“I think I’ll call you… Raven!” Charles decided dramatically.

“I thought you weren’t going to keep it,” Erik reminded him, and every head in the room turned to face him accusingly. “That’s what you _said_ ,” he added defensively. “That it would go home in the morning!”

“Of course, I wouldn’t _stop_ her from going to her real home,” Charles agreed, with a hint of disappointment. “But, if she doesn’t have one, do you think I could keep her, Erik?” Charles gazed up at him with his eyes shining blue in the firelight, and everyone kept staring at Erik as he hesitated.

“It’s just we’ve never had a cat before,” he hedged. This was a serious concern—what if the house didn’t like it, and left _it_ dead at the foot of the stairs? “I mean, what if it—“ He couldn’t very well say what he wanted in front of Charles.

“Please, Erik?” Charles asked. “I’ll take care of her, she won’t be any trouble!” He glanced around and pulled over a box. “Look, she can sleep in this box tonight,” he went on, making a little bed with the dishtowel. “You’ll be safe and warm here, Raven!” She stood and sniffed at the box suspiciously.

“Well, okay,” Erik agreed finally, because that box had not been there a moment ago. He didn’t know if anyone else had noticed that. “Sure, you can keep the cat.”

“Oh, thank you, Erik!” Charles told him gratefully, bouncing up to embrace him warmly. “Thank you so much! I haven’t had a cat since I was small…”

Warm and fed, Raven settled into her box with an orderliness Erik found unnatural. “Well, let’s go to bed now,” he encouraged, unable to let go of Charles. “I mean, enough excitement for everyone,” he added hurriedly, not wanting to sound like he was propositioning… his _spouse_ …

“Oh, but shouldn’t I—“ Charles countered, looking back at the cat.

“Let her sleep,” Erik advised. “She’s probably tired.”

“Well, alright,” Charles agreed reluctantly. “Cheers, everyone! Sorry I woke you.” No one seemed to mind, and the servants went off to their rooms in one direction while Erik, Emma, and Charles headed in the other.

Charles was worked up now, and danced along at the end of Erik’s arm; he was not allowed to leave the circle of light cast by the lanterns. “Did we ever have a pet before?” Erik asked Emma idly.

“I had parakeets as a child,” Emma reminded him. His memories of childhood at the Hall were somewhat fuzzy and fractured; he had spent most of his time with his mother.

“Oh, right. What happened to them?”

“They lived as long as parakeets do,” Emma assured him.

“Well, good.”

“Can she sleep in my room, Erik?” Charles pleaded. “I mean later, once she’s used to things.”

“No,” Erik decided. It felt petty but he also suspected no one would obey him anyway. “She can sleep in the kitchen, and earn her keep by catching mice.” Not that the house allowed mice. But surely there were some outside.

Charles rolled with this. “I’m sure she’ll be a fierce hunter!” he enthused. “Stealthy and elegant!”

They paused at the door to Charles’s room. “I’m going to make sure he gets to bed,” Erik told Emma, which might have sounded lascivious to some but here was a matter of safety.

“Alright. Goodnight, Charles,” she told him. “I’m glad you got a pet.”

“Cheers, Emma!” Charles responded, unexpectedly giving her a hug. Erik had to smirk at his sister being overwhelmed by Charles and not knowing what to do. “Thanks for your help.”

“Okay,” she agreed, and patted him lightly on the back before heading off to her room.

Erik shooed Charles into his room. He didn’t think he’d really gotten a good look at it since Charles had moved in; he’d been trying to keep his distance. There were a lot of bookcases lining the walls now, which were adorned with groups of books and notebooks that seemed very precisely placed. Erik knew the bookcases had not been there originally, and Emma hadn’t said anything about ordering some up.

“Did you get all your books organized?” he asked Charles leadingly when he returned from the bathroom.

“Oh yes, it was so much fun to do it somewhere with plenty of room,” Charles assured him. “I have them divided by topic, Vikings and fairytales and ghost stories and—Oh!” he interrupted himself, before he could point to every single grouping. “I never thanked you for the bookcases,” he remembered. “I thought I ought to put my books in the library, but I didn’t know how it was organized, and then I came back from lunch one day and the bookcases were here! So I used them instead.”

“Well… good,” Erik told him. The house must have provided them. “I mean, of course you can use the library, but it seemed like you might enjoy having your things close at hand.” It was never tricky to sort out a spouse’s possessions to send back to their family, afterward; the house usually put them in a pile in the middle of the foyer, discarded along with the person.

“I do enjoy it!” Charles promised. He impulsively gave Erik another hug, which lingered. “Thanks so much for the cat, and my notebooks, and all my nice things here—“

“Charles, you don’t have to keep thanking me,” Erik assured him. He rubbed his back idly, thinking the Omega smelled vaguely like apple cinnamon. “You’re my spouse. I—care about you.” As he said it he suddenly realized it was true, and reflexively he clutched Charles more tightly, as if that might protect him. But Erik knew from experience it would not; he had been completely in love with his first spouse, and in the end that hadn’t made any difference.

Charles said nothing, and there was a moment of warm silence. But then Charles’s shoulders tensed, and Erik heard a sniffle against his chest. “Charles?” Erik pushed him back immediately for a better look.

Charles’s eyes were wet with tears, blue pools that overflowed onto his lashes. “I’m sorry, I just—“ he sniffed.

“Don’t cry,” Erik insisted urgently. “Stop crying. What’s wrong?” Charles being unhappy made his heart clench painfully.

“It’s just—People aren’t usually—I mean, of _course_ people were nice to me,” Charles babbled. “The servants were always very kind. But after my father died, and my sister, and then my mother remarried—“

Erik cupped Charles’s face in his long fingers, wiping away the tears from his freckled cheeks. “You deserve people being nice to you,” he told him, trying to will this idea into his head. “Everyone here cares about you, because you’re kind and creative and clever and—“ And then Erik kissed him, because he didn’t think the words were getting through, and he _had_ to convince Charles, and the house, that Charles was worthy of good things.

He started gently; but as Charles moaned and clutched at his robe, Erik slid his hand into his hair and tilted his head a little more, tasting the Omega deeply. It was a little like diving into a dessert, rich and addictive and all-encompassing. He finally had to break away to breathe, panting in Charles’s ear as he tried to keep his lips on some part of him, his breath catching at every encouraging noise Charles made.

Abruptly Erik pulled back, and it took a moment for Charles’s eyes to focus. He smiled slowly, devastatingly, his cherry-red lips now swollen, and Erik fought the urge to fall back on them. “I should go,” he breathed, entirely reluctant to actually do so.

Charles took a disappointed breath, his fingers twining in Erik’s clothes. “Must you?” he asked.

“I-I really should,” Erik repeated. “It’s late and—“ He wasn’t thinking clearly right now, and that was dangerous around here. After he considered this carefully, in daylight, he could decide if it was time to become more intimate with Charles. He didn’t always get that far. “Into bed,” he told Charles, letting him go. “I’ll tuck you in.”

Pleased at the continued attention, Charles shed his robe and slippers carelessly—Erik picked them back up—and climbed into bed, arranging himself under the blankets. Erik hadn’t noticed before, but there were several toys in the bed, of the stuffed animal and rag doll variety. Charles blushed faintly when Erik saw them, but pulled one stuffed rabbit to his chest.

“This is Mr. Carrots,” he told Erik, admirably straight-faced. “I’ve had him since I was small. I didn’t—I only got to keep a few of my toys,” he added, gazing down at the rabbit’s fluffy ears as he stroked them. “I spent a lot of time with them, because my sister was often sick, and I wasn’t allowed to play with the servants’ children.”

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Carrots,” Erik told the rabbit, with dignity. “Perhaps you will come to tea sometime with my dog Muffin, and Emma’s doll Allegra.” Erik knew a little something about lonely childhoods, at least.

Charles giggled. “Thank you!”

“Lie down,” Erik encouraged, tucking the blankets around his shoulders to avoid a draft. “I fear you’ve been worked up by all this excitement, and won’t sleep well.” Not that Charles had any specific time he needed to get up.

“I always sleep well here, Erik,” Charles claimed. “The house makes little noises like it’s singing me to sleep.”

Most people were unnerved by the constant groans and pops the house made. “Well, good.” Erik pressed a quick kiss on Charles’s forehead and turned to leave hurriedly. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Erik!”

Erik hurried towards the door, intending to make a fast escape, and go back to his room and brood— _he_ certainly wouldn’t be getting much sleep now.

But the door wouldn’t open.

The handle was stuck fast and would barely even turn. _Open, d----t_ , Erik thought harshly, but the door refused to budge.

The doors here did not get stuck, or locked on accident; the house could do what it wanted there. And apparently what it wanted was for Erik to stay in Charles’s room.

Well, that was a new one.

“Erik?” Charles finally called from the bed. Erik supposed he must seem very strange, just standing at the closed door. “Is everything alright?”

Erik turned around slowly, scrambling for what to say, as obviously ‘My magical house won’t let me leave’ was unacceptable. “I was wondering… if perhaps I could stay a little longer,” he finally said, tentatively. This all depended on Charles’s feelings on the matter, house or no. “If you would mind terribly.”

“No, Erik, I would love for you to stay longer,” Charles asserted. “But you must get into bed, because it’s quite cold out.” He managed to say this with great sincerity; Erik had been about to offer to sleep on the couch.

“You’re sure?” he checked, approaching gingerly.

“Oh yes!” Charles insisted, sitting up. “Here, I’ll even make some room for you. Perhaps you would be kind enough to put my friends on the couch?” Dutifully Erik gathered up the toys from the bed and deposited them out of the way. Then he set aside his robe and slippers, and got under the covers with Charles, who curled up on his side facing him, expression expectant.

“Sorry I changed my mind,” Erik said. His heart was pounding so hard he worried it was noticeable. “I thought maybe we could just… do whatever we’re comfortable with, and then stop.”

“Stop?” Charles repeated quizzically, toying boldly with the collar of Erik’s nightshirt. His fingers burned when they brushed Erik’s skin.

“Whenever we wanted,” Erik promised, although Charles didn’t seem concerned about that.

“I feel very comfortable with you, Erik,” Charles decided, scooting closer.

Erik leaned down to kiss him again, letting loose a rare grin—Emma always said he had too many teeth. “Well, that’s the idea, darling,” he assured Charles.

**

Erik awoke the next morning to the delightful sight and feel of Charles in his arms, warm and contented and blissfully _alive_. Erik wanted to make sure he was going to stay that way, but so far none of his efforts for others had made much difference. The bitter thought poisoned his golden mood and he rocked Charles closer.

The Omega made a little noise as he woke. “Sorry,” Erik murmured in his ear. “Go back to sleep.”

Charles mumbled something, then forcibly rolled over to face Erik, smiling blearily at him. “Hello,” he greeted, a bit shyly.

“Hello,” Erik returned with a smile, kissing him. They didn’t get too far before Charles made a negative noise and pulled back with a wince. “Sorry,” Erik repeated, nuzzling his temple. “You must be sore.” Their mutual comfort level, it turned out, had been rather high.

“It’s alright,” Charles claimed. “I think I’ll just go to the bathroom, though.” He eased himself out of bed, hair adorably askew, and quickly pulled on his robe before Erik had had his fill of looking at his pale skin in the morning light. Sensing this Charles blushed faintly as he glanced back at the bed and slipped behind the bathroom door.

He came out again, too quickly, and hugged Erik from behind. “You drew a bath for me!” he announced in gratitude and amazement. “And it’s still hot! How did you do that?”

“Magic,” Erik claimed, throat dry, and Charles laughed.

There was a knock at the door. “That’ll be Mrs. Malloy with my snack,” Charles predicted, heading back to the bathroom. “I have to eat a little something as soon as I get up or I feel ill. I don’t know _how_ she knows when I’m awake! Could you bring it in for me?”

“Of course.” Erik yanked on his robe and went to the bedroom door, which now opened with no problem. A tray with a cup of tea and some biscuits sat innocently on a table, but Erik suspected Mrs. Malloy had little to do with it. He shut the door so Charles wouldn’t hear, and stood out in the hall. “Do you like him?” Erik asked the house aloud. “Is that what this means?” He didn’t really have any points of comparison here.

“Did you spend the night with Charles?” Emma asked, coming up behind him unexpectedly.

“Yes,” Erik replied, when he was done jumping in surprise. “The house locked me in his room.” Emma raised an eyebrow—anywhere else that would sound like a cheap excuse. “And it brings him food,” Erik added, gesturing towards the tray.

Emma smiled. “That’s wonderful!” she declared. “The house must really—“

Per usual Erik had to squash her enthusiasm. “Let’s not get carried away,” he interrupted, picking up the tray. “It’s probably nothing.”

With that he carried the food into Charles in the bath, which he had forgotten to tell Emma about. He just couldn’t—he couldn’t get his hopes up, not just yet. Anyway, even if the house _did_ like Charles—maybe Charles wouldn’t like _it_ , once he knew the truth.

**

The new Mate was physically compatible with the Master, and so one test was passed. The House did not understand why the Master was always so reluctant to assess this aspect, as it was vital to the production of Offspring.

The House was not sure about the Cat, however. The House had let the Cat onto the Grounds as another test, but the Mate had reacted with more enthusiasm than the House had predicted. Now the Cat roamed freely, shedding fur and attempting to scratch things. The House would not be scratched! Fortunately the House could open its own doors to let the Cat in or out, when the People were otherwise occupied.

And the Mate was often occupied, writing his stories, traipsing through seemingly every different room and patch of garden in search of the perfect spot. He had written more on the unicorn adventure, though, after the House stealthily moved that notebook to the top of the pile (several times), and the House felt this was worth encouraging.

**

Erik was leafing through the newspaper in the parlor when he caught the unmistakable scent of Earl Grey and looked up to see that a full tea service had appeared. “Your tea’s here,” he prompted Emma, who was laying out a complicated game of solitaire on the table.

She glanced over at it. “I didn’t ask for any tea,” she corrected him. Asking the house for it was faster than asking Mrs. Malloy, who was busy with more complex cooking matters.

Erik frowned. “Well, _I_ didn’t ask for any.”

“Then why—“

At that moment Charles tumbled into the room. “Oh, wonderful!” he exclaimed upon seeing the tea, and dove in. Emma caught Erik’s eye meaningfully but he refused to acknowledge her. “These seed cakes are so scrummy!” Charles went on obliviously, munching on one. “No, Raven, seed cakes are not for cats,” he told the black creature, who had followed him into the room and meowed demandingly.

Undeterred, Raven jumped from the floor to the couch, climbed over Erik who was clearly just in the way, and tried to force her way onto the tray. “Naughty kitty!” Charles admonished, setting her back on the floor. This was largely undermined by Charles giving her a crumb of cake, which she licked up, then rejected in a huff. “I told you,” he reminded her.

Then Charles sat down on the couch and gave Erik a big hug, crushing his newspaper. Since they’d started sharing a bed Charles had enjoyed being more affectionate with Erik. “Thank you!” he told him brightly.

Erik frequently found Charles confusing still, though not unpleasantly so, and he started to smile in return, rusty and stiff though it was. “For what?”

“The fountain!” Charles replied nonsensically. “It’s so beautiful now, with the mermaid and the plants—“ Erik still frowned. “You must’ve known somehow that I like to sit there and write,” Charles went on, becoming less confident. “Or should I be thanking Emma?” he checked, turning to his sister-in-law.

“The mermaid fountain, in the maze?” she asked with controlled alarm.

“You shouldn’t go into the maze,” Erik reproached his spouse. “You might get lost.” One spouse had been presumed dead long before they finally found her there.

“It’s so calm and peaceful!” Charles claimed. “Very inspirational. And now the fountain is running and it’s all cleaned up and just perfect! It seemed a bit neglected before,” he understated delicately.

Erik stood. “Let’s take a look at it.”

The three of them trooped outside, followed by Raven, who was only going along because she wanted to, and not because anyone else was. Erik held tight to Charles’s hand.

“The maze is very confusing,” he warned as they entered it. Especially because the hedgerows could shift around on their own. “Do you come here a lot?”

“All the time!” Charles insisted blithely. Belatedly he remembered Erik had said not to come at all. “I’ve never gotten lost before,” he promised. “I tried making a map at first, but I kept messing it up. So now I just go by instinct, and I end up where I wanted to be.”

Erik glanced back at Emma, knowing she would see this as the house _helping_ Charles. But he felt it was still ambiguous, the house could just be luring him—

“Isn’t it lovely?” Charles announced with satisfaction, and Erik stopped to stare.

“Holy s—t,” he blurted, and Charles made a chiding noise at his language. Erik felt it was justified. The chipped, vine-strangled, grimy fountain was now pristine and ornate, with sparkling water cascading from the marble mermaid’s pearlescent conch shell into the pond below, water lilies dancing in the ripples.

Charles scampered over to sit on the wide lip. “There’s fish, too,” he pointed out. “Only it will get cold soon, what do you do with the fish in the winter?”

“I have no f-----g idea,” Erik replied, still gazing at the transformed fountain. It hadn’t looked this good since he was a boy, and it was difficult to interpret this as anything other than a sign of approval.

“There’s the atrium,” Emma suggested. Her look told Erik to play along. “We could fix it up, and keep the fish in the pond there.”

“Oh, I didn’t know we had an _atrium_!” Charles said with excitement.

“It’s in the east wing, where you aren’t allowed to go,” Erik told him sternly. Because telling Charles not to do things had worked so well. “Until we get it fixed. It’s not structurally sound.” Charles nodded dutifully, as he always did at first.

“Raven, leave the fish alone,” Charles admonished his cat, who had jumped up beside him. “You might fall in! So… who had the fountain fixed?” he finally prompted.

“That was my idea,” Erik claimed, which was a little ridiculous after all his confusion. “I delegated it to Emma. Er, thanks,” he added to her. “Well done.”

She pasted a smile on her face. “I delegated it to the staff,” she lied in turn. “I didn’t think they’d get to it so quickly.”

Charles gave them both a sunny smile and a big hug. “Thank you both so much! I’ll go thank Stewart and Mrs. Malloy,” he announced, trotting away.

Erik started to stop him, lest he get lost in the maze, but Emma put a restraining hand on his arm and they waited stiffly until they were certain Charles was out of earshot.

“So,” Erik began pessimistically.

“The house cleaned the fountain for him, and helps him through the maze,” Emma shot back tartly.

Erik sat down on the edge of the fountain, unable to stay upright. “It’s just hard to believe,” he admitted to Emma. “The house never liked anyone before.”

She sat next to him and took his hand, like she used to do when they were children. “It had to start sometime,” she reasoned. “I know you care about Charles—“

“I’ve cared about several, and so have you,” he reminded her sharply. If Charles was, unbelievably and wonderfully, the true mate for Erik, no one could be happier about it; but that didn’t erase the loss, the pain, of all the previous years.

Emma was more pragmatic. “We have to move forward,” she advised. “I think we should tell him about the house.”

Erik looked over at her abruptly. “No,” he denied. “It’s—what if he doesn’t want to stay here?” Who would want to live in a house that murdered innocent people, who simply didn’t live up to its standards?

Emma did not think this was realistic. “He’s going to start noticing strange things,” she warned. “He’s already noticed the paintings, I saw him staring at them.”

“What about the paintings?” Erik asked in confusion, and Emma rolled her eyes.

“The paintings on the stairs, that you walk past several times a day,” she clarified. “They’ve changed, to suit Charles.”

“I never look at them,” Erik admitted, which was obvious. Disapproving ancestors and their defunct manors—what was there to look at?

“Well, you should.” Emma was silent for a long moment. “I think we should tell him soon,” she reiterated.

Erik stood. “When it’s _your_ spouse, you can decide when to tell,” he judged, and attempted to return to the house. It was difficult to maintain the chilly parting shot, however, when he and Emma kept running into each other as they tried to leave the maze.

“G-------t,” Erik swore in frustration as they hit another dead end. “You know, Charles could be getting into all sorts of trouble back at the house—“

“No, he won’t, that’s the point,” Emma countered. “The house will look after him.”

“You’re not helping,” he snapped at her.

Suddenly the hedgerows opened up a direct path to the house, as though the maze had grown bored with them as playthings. Raven looked up from washing her face in some surprise, then flicked her tail and ran off.

“We don’t usually get strays, either,” Emma noted. “But Charles wanted a pet.”

“And fish, apparently,” Erik grumbled.

It wasn’t that he was unhappy about this development. But he was having a hard time accepting that it had finally happened, and wasn’t just another sadistic trick. He kept thinking of all the ways it might be the latter, all the ways Charles might yet be taken away. Or how he might decide to take _himself_ away, if he knew the truth.

**

This Mate was _disobedient_. The Master said _not_ to go here or there, and the Mate immediately went to those places. And then the House had to work, to make sure the Mate didn’t get lost or injured.

The House did not sense that the Mate was defiant, or suspicious; he was merely curious, eager to know and explore the place he felt was Home. But People had a saying about the lethality of curiosity, which the House thought was quite apt, given what had happened to others who had poked about the east wing…

**

“Highcross Castle,” Erik observed, standing on the landing to stare at one of the paintings.

“Yes,” Emma agreed patiently.

“Scotland, right?”

“I believe so.”

“I don’t remember the dragon,” Erik admitted dryly. The beast was scaly but noble, a golden red coil around the manor’s dark walls.

“No, that’s new,” Emma agreed.

Erik turned to another one. “The third Earl Pembroke,” he recalled. Their father used to quiz them on their dour ancestors arrayed around the walls. This one stood with a patriarchal hand on the deer he had allegedly tamed. Well, it used to be a deer. “That’s a unicorn,” Erik noted. “And wasn’t he angrier-looking?” He did not remember any of his illustrious lineage looking benignly eccentric, verging on jolly.

“Charles didn’t want an angry-looking painting,” Emma suggested. “That changed first, after Charles said the third Earl looked like he’d had an unhappy life.”

“He probably did,” Erik predicted cynically. These changes were pure fantasy, a dream of what one might _wish_ had happened, not what actually _did_.

This didn’t seem to bother Emma. “Did you see Great-Grandfather?” she asked innocently.

Erik wheeled around and stifled an ungainly snort as he saw their austere, dignified patriarch sitting astride his horse, fully decked out as an American cowboy. The boots, the hat, the gun belt with a six-shooter instead of his hunting rifle—“What the h—l is _that_ about?” he laughed.

“I think Charles is writing a story about the American West,” Emma speculated, pleased to see her brother find humor in something. “I saw some notes he wrote on a bit of newspaper. I couldn’t help it!” she insisted when Erik gave her a look. “It was in the margins of the society column.”

Erik was now noticing nymphs popping out of trees in previously dull forest scenes, mermaids lounging on rocks in seascapes, and ancestral portraits with horns or wings. He had to admit these were improvements, and assumed the house could change things back if it wanted. None of the paintings were valuable, anyway.

“Did any of _your_ paintings change?” Erik asked curiously, of the watercolors Emma hung in the sunnier spots of the house.

She shook her head and started to answer, but was interrupted by the rapid arrival of Stewart. “Sir, the door to the east wing is open!” he announced with some agitation. “It’s not Mrs. Malloy, she’s in the kitchen—“

That left only one person. “S—t!” Erik exclaimed, jogging down the corridor to the forbidden passage. “Charles!” The house may or may not have liked him; but Charles didn’t have to go taking such chances. He was still expendable.

Erik stopped at the open door, looking. “Charles!” he repeated. There was no answer, the house resting innocently around him, as though there was no cause for alarm.

“Do you see him?” Emma asked, on his heels.

“No,” Erik admitted in frustration. “I’m going in. Stay here. If you could avoid killing me, that would be nice,” he told the house sarcastically, and stepped over the threshold.

It was hard to know if there was really anything wrong with the east wing. They weren’t going to get a builder out to assess it, after all. They just didn’t need or use the space, so it had been shut up since Erik was a boy. He stepped carefully down the corridor, the floorboards squeaking and shifting more than they did in the rest of the house. Dust lay thick on the surfaces, except for where it was stirred into tiny whirlwinds by drafts. Erik vaguely remembered playing in some of the rooms; his mother had liked them, and kept them open. But now they held only ghostly covered furniture, when he could get the doors open at all.

“Charles!” he shouted again, the panic he’d pushed down beginning to rise and cloud his thoughts. All the little nice touches could have been a trick to lure Charles in here, or maybe the house had liked him well enough but now was angry at his nosiness. “Charles!” If anything happened to this spouse, Erik did not think he would have the will to try another. No one could match Charles for his optimism, his energy, his imagination—all things this place could use more of. “Ch—“

“Here I am!” Charles finally said, popping up around the corner. “I just wanted to see the—“

Erik did not care what he just wanted to see and grabbed Charles’s arm, dragging him back towards their starting point with a stony expression on his face. “I told you to stay out of the east wing!” he snarled.

“Erik—“ Doors slammed and beams groaned around them, the wind howling and spewing dust as Erik manhandled Charles.

“It’s _dangerous_!” he snapped, heedless of Charles’s discomfort. “You had better learn to do what I say, before you get yourself killed!”

“I’m sorry, Erik!” Charles told him tearfully. Erik normally treated him very carefully and the change in his attitude was no doubt more upsetting than anything else. Well, good. Erik was upset, too. He yanked Charles through the doorway and discharged him into Emma’s arms, the house seething around them and refusing to let Erik slam the door shut as he wanted.

“I just wanted to see the atrium, for the fish—“ Charles tried to explain, but Erik was far too angry to care.

“F—k your fish!” he responded crudely, and Charles clung more tightly to Emma, who was trying to give Erik a _look_ but he was _done_ with looks. “Do you know how many people have been killed in the east wing? _Three_. That I know of. Because they were too f-----g curious for their own good!” This list included one spouse each for him and Emma, as well as a parlor maid they’d tried to employ. The house had strong opinions about staff, too. “People have also died in the maze, where I _also_ told you not to go—“

“Erik, that’s enough—“ Emma began, but he was on a roll now.

“Enough?” he repeated sharply. “Yesterday, _you_ were the one who wanted to tell him all about the house! Well, it’s alive, and it kills people!”

This revelation hung in the air, the house utterly silent and still as if waiting to see how Charles responded. “Kills people?” he echoed faintly, sniffling.

“Yes,” Erik agreed shortly. “I’ve been married before. So has Emma. Several times. The house didn’t _like_ those spouses, so—“ He made a dismissive noise, as if their deaths had been no more than a servant clearing away crumbs.

Charles started to back away from both of them, not soon enough in Erik’s opinion. “I think the house really likes you, Charles—“ Emma tried to assure him, but Erik cut her off.

“Crushed by a falling beam in the east wing, lost in the maze, pushed down the stairs, drowned in the pond—“ Erik rattled off the horrible litany, that he went over in his head when he couldn’t sleep at night. “Carriage accident in the yard, bedroom caught fire, poisoned—“

“Why are you telling me this?” Charles demanded. He had put some furniture between himself and the others, staring like he was seeing them for the first time as the monsters they truly were.

Erik’s throat closed up, and he couldn’t answer. It really _was_ his fault, for bringing innocents in knowing what would likely happen—

“So you’ll know,” Emma supplied, when her brother said nothing. “So you’ll know that the house can protect you, too, if you’re part of the family—“ That was how Emma saw things.

“You should leave,” Erik told Charles abruptly. “You should leave right now. Get out of this house, get off this property, _then_ you’ll be safe—“

“Do you want me to leave?” Charles asked softly, and Erik couldn’t meet his eyes. He wanted Charles to stay. But he wanted Charles to live more.

“Of course we don’t want you to leave,” Emma answered again. She stepped towards Charles as if she would embrace him, and he backed away towards the door. “We think the house does like you, you just need to be more careful—“

“I didn’t—I never felt like I was in danger,” Charles revealed. _Before_ , he might have added. “Excuse me, please!” He turned and hurried down the hall away from them.

“Charles—“ The door slammed in Erik’s face as he tried to follow, and wouldn’t open even when he pounded on it and swore.

“Stop it!” Emma snapped at him. “You’ll just scare him more!”

“He _should_ be scared,” Erik growled, pacing the room. “He should be horrified, _disgusted_ , by what goes on here, what _we_ allow to happen—“

“That’s _you_ ,” Emma accused. “That’s how _you_ feel, because you’ve never tried to understand what the house wants to do—“

“The house _murders_ people!” Erik shot back. “And it will murder Charles too, once he’s served his purpose—“

The vases on the mantel rattled menacingly, and one plunged to its death, shattering on the floor. Emma chose to interpret this as a positive, however. “That’s not going to happen to Charles,” she translated. “Plenty of people have lived here for years and been discharged peacefully. But you wouldn’t know, because you weren’t here.”

Erik looked up at her sharply. Emma, daughter of the second wife, had lived in the house her whole life, with a succession of nannies and governesses. Erik had been taken away by his mother, the first wife, and allowed only brief visits until his father died and the house became his. That his father had approved this arrangement told Erik all he needed to know about the man.

But perhaps Emma knew something about lonely childhoods, too.

“Emma—“ he tried, not sure what he was going to say next.

She went to the door, which opened for her. “I’m going to see where Charles went,” she said quietly. “You need to apologize to him.”

“ _Apologize_ —“ The door shut again before Erik could escape.

**

The Mate was unhappy. This made the House unhappy. In fact, _all_ the People were unhappy, and this was simply unnecessary, and due only to the Master being so dim-witted sometimes. The Sister understood how things were, this was the House’s way, to protect its Family. And the new Mate was part of its Family now.

Well, the Master just needed to patch things up with the Mate. Until then, the House could make it very uncomfortable for him.

**

“Why is it so d—n cold in here?” Erik complained, tugging his coat around him more tightly in the parlor. Once he’d escaped from the house he’d gone for a long walk, but the wind was icy and damp, and he was chilled to the bone.

“The fire won’t start,” Emma replied crisply. She had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders as she tried to read a book in the fading light.

“I’ll see that Charles gets some extra blankets.” He had not come out of his room again today, but was reported by the servants to be alive.

“Oh, _his_ fireplace is fine,” Emma informed him. “Mrs. Malloy says his room is toasty warm.” Clearly she was blaming Erik for the cold spell in the rest of the house.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Erik told her after a moment. “I was upset about Charles being in the east wing, and I handled it badly.”

“I’m not the one who needs an apology,” Emma replied, but in a warmer tone.

“I just—“ Erik could feel himself getting frustrated again. “I wanted him to know what this was like. _You_ said he ought to know.”

Emma finally put her book down. “You could have said it more diplomatically,” she advised.

Erik could not imagine what she meant. “The house sometimes dispatches people on a permanent basis?” That was a more diplomatic way to say it killed people, wasn’t it? Emma rolled her eyes, so this was clearly not right.

“It’s not about _killing_ ,” she tried to tell him. “It’s about _protecting_.”

Erik was not able to see it her way. “I fail to understand what any of our previous spouses did, that we needed to be protected from. To the point of killing them,” he stated coolly.

She sighed. “Well, apologize to Charles for yelling, at least,” she suggested, tabling the more philosophical discussion. “For not saying you wanted him to stay.”

Erik stood, tensing again. “I only want him to stay if he’s not going to be _killed_. Ever.”

A decorative plate threw itself off the mantel—good thing they weren’t valuable—and Emma huffed at the mess. “The house won’t hurt Charles,” she repeated. “That’s what it’s saying.”

“Well forgive me if I don’t entirely trust it!” he shot back, leaning on the mantel above the useless fireplace. This was the sort of question where no doubt, no suspicion, could be allowed. And the track record for mercurial abodes that oughtn’t to have sentiments at _all_ was a little shaky, as far as Erik was concerned.

After a moment he noticed the painting on the wall above the mantel had transformed into some sort of treasure cave, with incredibly detailed gold coins and jewels piled about. Actually there was a dragon lurking in the corner, dim in the shadows, so it was really a dragon’s hoard.

“Do you think this dragon looks like me?” he asked Emma, not sure how he should take that.

“Yes,” she replied, as though he ought to have noticed it earlier. “Did you see who else is in the picture?”

Erik scanned it carefully. Perched on the dragon’s claw was a tiny elf—judging from the green clothes and pointed ears—who looked like Charles. He was smiling and playing the lyre for the dragon. Who was also smiling, with too many teeth.

“S—t,” Erik sighed. It was a disgustingly romantic depiction. He felt it probably reflected Charles’s viewpoint accurately, however, including the idea that the dragon was nice and protective, instead of evil and destructive.

“Are you really going to keep Charles safe?” he asked the house.

Before his eyes, a banner appeared in the painting, strung across the ceiling of the dragon cave. It read, ‘Charles + Erik Forever.’

“Really?” Erik didn’t know whether to be overjoyed at the reassurance, or nauseous at the whimsy. Nausea was definitely more familiar.

“Oh! How wonderful!” Emma exclaimed, having come up behind him. There were tears in her eyes, and she hugged Erik suddenly. “I’m so happy for you!”

Erik embraced her, remembering that it wasn’t only _him_ who had suffered the house’s wrath. Or protection. Maybe now that Charles had been accepted for _him_ , Emma would find someone as well. Joy and happiness were hard for Erik to adopt after all this time—they were skittish animals crouching warily in a dark corner.

But he was going to try.

If Charles would stay.

“I’d better go talk to him,” Erik decided. A fire sparked in the grate, as the house gave encouragement to this idea. “You could’ve just _said_ ,” he grumbled.

The paintings watched him as he went upstairs and knocked on Charles’s door. “Charles? May I speak to you?”

There was a pause. “I’m rather tired, Erik—“ Charles began tactfully.

At Erik’s feet, Raven meowed insistently. “Raven wants in,” he conveyed.

“Well, alright,” Charles agreed. The door swung open, revealing Charles sitting on the couch before the fire with a book. Erik glanced behind the door, but there was no one else in the room.

“Your door opened on its own,” Erik pointed out, as Raven forced her way onto Charles’s lap, purring with obnoxious volume.

“Yes, it does that sometimes,” Charles agreed, as the door shut behind Erik to keep the warmth in. “Like the lamps go on and off on their own, and the bathtub fills with water, and the bed is straightened up.” He looked up at Erik. “I always thought it was nice. Like the house was taking care of me.”

Erik started to sit down in a chair, but it danced away, fortunately with enough warning that he didn’t fall. Charles merely raised an eyebrow, and Erik stayed standing. “I apologize for frightening you earlier,” he finally said. “I think most people would be scared of a house that did things on its own.”

“Well, I didn’t know it killed people,” Charles admitted. “I feel sad for them. Like I feel sad for the mice Raven kills.” He stroked the contented cat. “I suppose that’s just its nature.” The blanket that had slipped off his shoulders readjusted itself of its own accord.

“Emma says—We both think the house likes you,” Erik told him again. It bore repeating. “I’ve never seen it do so many nice things before. _I_ don’t get breakfast in bed, or baths drawn,” he added in a lighter tone. The fire hissed, as if scoffing at him. “Have you seen the paintings? There’s one in the parlor—“

“The dragon and the elf?” Charles supplied with a smile. “Yes, I really like that one.”

Erik started to smile in return, just a little, then realized he was still looming over Charles. “Could you come here?” he asked the chair in exasperation. Finally it moved back so he could sit. “Would you rather leave?” he inquired of Charles levelly. “That would be safer for you. To live in a house that’s a little less… opinionated.” Erik would have to stay; he was the Master of Ironwood Hall, after all. “I would speak to your stepfather,” he went on, trying to keep his tone reasonable. “I would make sure he understood you were not to blame.”

“You don’t know my stepfather,” Charles responded, with a twisted smile Erik did not like.

“There are other arrangements that could be made,” he suggested. He’d been thinking about them a lot lately. “Where mainly you live somewhere else—“ He paused, looking around since he expected the house to object. But it merely waited, still and quiet.

“I’d-I’d rather stay,” Charles replied hesitantly. “With you, and Emma, and Mrs. Malloy and Stewart. And the house. I like the house. I think it just needs some love.”

The house had not felt much love recently, Erik supposed. Most days he loathed it; his mother had left it as soon as she could, and his father hadn’t had much love to give anyone or anything.

“I would like you to stay,” Erik finally said, and Charles beamed at him, filling Erik with a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. “I just wanted to know that you would be safe.”

“I feel very safe here, Erik,” Charles assured him. “Would you—like to sit by me?” he offered shyly, and Erik was booted from the chair, stumbling slightly. Charles tsked the furniture. “Let Erik decide,” he chided it mildly, and the chair scooted forward grudgingly, bumping Erik’s knees.

“I’m not sure _I’ll_ survive the house’s affection for you,” he muttered, though he did want to sit next to Charles.

The blanket moved to embrace them both, but Raven was upset to be jostled and bounced off Charles’s lap with a meow of complaint, settling in her box which had somehow been transferred to Charles’s room. This at least left them free to adjust themselves as they wished.

“The house saved you from falling on the stairs, the night you found Raven,” Erik noted, his arm going around Charles’s shoulders.

“I know,” Charles confessed, leaning his head against Erik. “I thought maybe you would think me fanciful if I said anything.”

“I already think you fanciful,” Erik told him, his tone verging on playful. He brushed his lips against Charles’s temple. “Perhaps the house will fix up the east wing for you,” he mused.

“I would love to see the atrium working again!” Charles confirmed. “For my fish!” When it was just Erik and Emma, it had hardly been worth prodding the house for repairs or updates; but now Erik was seeing the possibilities open up before him—not just the east wing, but gardens and animals and statues, and maybe a _few_ more people, though Erik was never going to be very social.

“Maybe my mother would come for a visit,” he speculated. He had told her all about Charles in his letters.

“Oh, that would be lovely,” Charles enthused. Maybe more things were going to be lovely from now on.

**

So now the Mate was happy, and the Master was happy. This made the House happy, something it hadn’t experienced in a long time. But the House was not one to rest on its laurels. A Mate was needed for the Sister as well. And then, there was the Offspring to consider…


End file.
